


From Hero to Zero

by bishounen_curious



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan, Tiger & Bunny
Genre: Always, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Implied Barnaby Brooks Jr./Kotetsu T. Kaburagi, Jean Kirschtein/Barnaby Brooks Jr., Jean as a dweeb, M/M, Rando Bar Hookup, Unbeta'd, did it for the vine, drunken handjobs always end in tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1293643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bishounen_curious/pseuds/bishounen_curious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Kirschtein was just trying to score some free drinks and maybe a smooch from a stranger. He didn't expect to meet Sternbild's most popular Hero that night, nor did he expect to meet him drunk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Hero to Zero

**Author's Note:**

> sarcastic recommendations for crossover fics shouldn't always be written. this one, however, was.
> 
> maybe it shouldn't have. 
> 
> it's all for you, Dee
> 
> all of this terrible garbage for you

Jean’s boxers and dark wash jeans are pooled around his ankles in the bathroom of some hole-in-the-wall downtown. His favorite celebrity is fisting his dick with more gusto than necessary, and all he can think about is how damn thankful he is for the cheap, incandescent light bulbs in the fixtures above.

That shitty lighting, though. He’s blushing like a seven-year-old girl and that’s really coordinating rather well with the bad flare up of acne on his neck and upper chest. Jean Kirschtein isn’t a religious person -but then again, not many high schoolers are, right?- but he’s thanking God or whomever is listening that Barnaby Brooks Jr is seeing him in the worst light ever- which turns out, is the best possible way to view teenaged awkwardness.

Moist air is tickling his ear. It’s Barnaby, the most popular Hero on Hero TV- and the most attractive, by far. Golden, curly hair. Eyes the color of early-morning grass. The kind of body that people search for on the internet to jerk off to.

He still doesn’t really believe that this is happening.

Big, tan fingers are tugging at his cock. Jean doesn’t want Barnaby, or anybody, or even himself to hear him moan, so he bites down on his underlip. He tastes blood. He doesn’t mind, though; isn’t that what public bathroom hookups are supposed to taste like?

“Good?” Barnaby questions. Jean doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just shrugs.

That seems to be good enough for the blond, because he grunts and tightens his grip around the teen. He slurs a few unintelligible words under his breath. Jean’s not quite positive, but he has an inkling that the hero has tipped back one drink too many.

He found him in a bar, after all.

Jean had been the one to approach him. Of course he had to make the move- why would a famous person go up to an average-looking kid for a conversation? It’s not like Jean appeared to be different. He was in a button down, his best pair of jeans and his entire visage screamed of mediocracy. He was just another teen looking to score some drinks on a Friday night alone.

Obviously Jean made the move.

Barnaby had been nursing an empty glass of something. Jean didn’t know of what, nor did he care. He was more concerned with the fact that - _Woah. Barnaby Brooks Jr. Holy-oh fuck me, it’s actually him. Oh my fucking god._ Drinks were no longer part of the equation, at this point. He just wanted a handshake, maybe a high five. Take a selfie with him to put on Instagram and brag about it for the rest of his life. You know, normal thoughts. Average goals.The usual.

But he wasn’t expecting for Barnaby to throw his _hardmuscledfirmoh_ arm around his shoulders when Jean introduced himself as being “One of your biggest fans” and then proceeding to add that he “really liked what he was doing for the city and admired him for his bravery” and a bunch of halfway sincere bullshit that tried to mask the fact that he was obviously starstruck and aiming to impress.

“Really, kid?” His voice had been gravelly, not like how it sounded on television. It was scratchier, an octave lower that dropped straight down to the teen’s groin. Jean had timidly responded in the affirmative. Consequently, he hadn’t been prepared for the question mouthed against his earlobe:

“If you ever got the chance, would you fuck me?”

From there, he doesn’t remember the exact details, but he can recall a couple of hurried gropes, hissed instructions on how to get to the bathroom, and a cold rejection to Jean’s lips on the blond’s. He wouldn’t kiss him, but he’d allow his spunk to sticky his hands. Suddenly all the snippets he read from the gossip rags made sense: this is what a diva was.

So, there he was. His new Urban Outfitters shirt was certainly rubbing into the bathroom wall slime. The pit of his stomach was - well, squirmy: confused, adrenaline-laced pleasure thrummed in his belly and made him feel so deliciously-nauseated that Jean didn’t know if he was enjoying this sloppy handjob or not.

Unintelligible syllables hissed underneath Barnaby’s breath. His golden fringe shadowed his half-slit eyes. The bare curve of his neck smelled like an expensive cologne that he never could afford and Jean’s head was starting to pound from having too much of the chemicals in his lungs and bloodstream.

Those too-soft hands were twisting around him harder, pressing sloppy circles against his leaky slit. Jean just closed his eyes. He felt like he was dying.

He wasn’t sure how much longer he was going to last. Barnaby also seemed to be on a similar thought process because his strokes were getting shallower, the heel of his palm pressing and touching and rubbing its fleshiness against the head of his flushed cock. Jean’s eyes rolled back into his skull because there was only so much stimulation an awkward teen could process at once. He shamelessly swiveled his hips into the sensation, rocking back on his heels to get as much of this friction as possible. You only had the chance to shoot your wad into a celebrity’s hand once, and Jean was going to enjoy every second of it.

Barnaby could totally tell how close he was. Even in the shitty lighting, anyone could discern that painful red coloring of his dick, and how fucking hard and swollen and veiny it. And also, he started making these pathetic whimpering noises that made him feel like a cheap, needy whore. He couldn’t help himself; it just felt so fucking good. His spazzing palms were clenching around Barnaby’s shoulders and crinkling the white leather of his jacket with expensive squeaks.

Jean was starting to have trouble breathing when Barnaby growled darkly into the sweaty, heated nape of the teen’s neck and said, “So fucking close, aren’t you, Kotetsu?”

_Kotetsu? What kind of weak ass name was that?_ Jean forced out weakly, licking his lips raw, “Jean. My name is _Jean_.”

Barnaby’s tongue laved messily up his jugular and he moaned. “Kotetsu. Just come already. Come and scream.”

Maybe it was the confusion or maybe it was that deliciously constricting fist around his tip, but something triggered Jean release and suddenly he was pressing himself into the grimy wall, knees buckling and a high-pitched keening noise giving away his virgin status like a blaring neon sign.

Boneless. Putty. He felt dead and his stomach had dropped at hearing that strange fucking name stuttering off the blond’s tongue. He dragged his hand over his eyes and repeated, “Jean. My name is Jean.”

Those green eyes were awfully dilated and wide for a drunk guy’s. Something wasn’t right. His stomach not only felt like it was in his hips, but now there was a hole gnawing away at the lining, only growing and expanding and hurting and _wow Jean was going to throw up his anxiety was going to make him throw up what the fuck_  and in that moment _he absolutely hated himself_.

As the teen’s abnormally-red face was turning green (probably canceling out his acne flush), he was interrupted from his almost-vomiting episode by the choking noise in front of him. Hot tears blurred the already blurry vision of Barnaby Brooks Jr behind his glasses.

“Kotetsu…”

For the third time Jean was going to correct him when that beautiful model-of-a-man burst into hysterical sobs.

“Kotetsu! I’m so sorry. Oh God.”

Jean watched him rub his come-splattered hands over his face and convulse into himself with sobs and hiccups and woeful moans. He looked down at his open pants, his spent cock filthy and flaccid and pathetic.

This was probably a sign.

From something or another.

Jean just sighed, zipped up his pants, and left the bar to go home. And cry.


End file.
